


We are the crossroads

by Halfling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfling/pseuds/Halfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean and Cas disappear into purgatory at the end of season 7 Sam starts hunting with his only availiable ally: the King of Hell. They're both a bit down on their luck, but find strength in an unexpected place: each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are the crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at my [tumblr](www.halfhalfling.tumblr.com).

“How did this happen?” It wasn’t the first time Sam had asked himself that question. He’d been asking it for months now, but even more so the recent months since Dean and Cas were sent off to God knew where. More specifically, since Sam had begun traveling with Crowley, of all people. It had never been a planned development, but then, what of Sam’s life had ever gone to plan?

It started innocently enough. Sam had found a nest of demons trying their damnedest to free Lucifer from his cage. They were as of then yet unsuccessful, but they needed to be dealt with, regardless. If he still had Dean, Sam would think nothing of charging in, colt and knife blazing, but without backup… It just couldn’t be done singlehandedly, not if he intended to live. He needed help, but from who? The only living hunter he trusted well enough was Garth, and though he was a great enough guy, he was no Dean. And besides, he was 6 states away working another case. He ran through the (admittedly short) list of other living allies he could call on for help, but found he wasn’t willing to put any of them in this kind of danger. There was only one sort-of-ally left he could think of, and he didn’t like it. But what choice did he have?

Summoning Crowley was the easy part. A few simple ingredients and a bit of fire and he had the King of Hell on his doormat. That was when his real troubles began.

“Well if it isn’t loneliest Winchester,” Crowley said upon noticing who summoned him. “How’s life without your other half?”

The mention of Dean caused a brief flash of pain and loss in Sam’s gut. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s, uh. I need your help.”

Crowley grinned. “My, my, big surprise there. Got anything to drink in this place?” He walked to the motel’s tiny kitchen and began looking through the cabinets without waiting for a response.

“There’s beer in the fridge. Does this mean you’ll help?”

Crowley tsked at him and pulled out a beer before sitting at the table. “You haven’t told me what it is I’m to be helping you with. Sit.”

Sam sat at the table obediently, mentally cursing himself for this stupid idea. “Right. Well, it’s like this. Some of Lucifer’s supporters are trying to raise him from the cage. Again. I know where they’re at, I just need some backup when I go in there and deal with it.”

“Demons.”

Sam swallowed hard, trying to fight down the sense of urgency he felt. “Yeah.”

“Shame.” Crowley took a drink and grimaced. “This is what passes for beer these days?”

Sam ignored him. “So will you help?”

“What’s your hurry?”

“Uh, Lucifer? The cage? Last I checked you weren’t on the best of terms with him.”

“Look what it took for you and big brother to get him out the last time. A bunch of two-bit demon half-wits aren’t going to open that cage. Not for all the brimstone in Hell.”

“As far as we know, yeah, but what if they know something we don’t?”

“Such as?” The corner of Crowley’s lips twitched in a smile and Sam got the vague sense the King of Hell was messing with him.

“I don’t know, does it matter?” Sam ran an absent-minded hand through his hair. “They need to be dealt with.”

Crowley laughed at Sam’s evident frustration. “I agree. But it sounds like a job for hunters. Run out of buddies at your AA meetings?”

Sam clinched his jaw and stared at the table. “Please, Crowley.”

He could hear Crowley sigh and stand up from the table. “I suppose since you asked so nicely. Where are the little buggers? Been a while since I had me a massacre.”

Sam looked up, trying to mask the hope and relief from his face. “Really, you’ll help?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “ **Yes**. Now stop looking like a kicked puppy before I regret it.”

* * *

 

The demon’s nest was a cinch to take out. Crowley knew it would be. Even low on juice as he was, Crowley wouldn’t have been able to crawl his way from a black-eyed pissant to the King of Hell without being able to take out any and all brethren unfortunate enough to stand in his way. In fact, Crowley had found himself holding back for Sam’s sake, not that he could explain exactly why. He still wasn’t sure why he was even helping Sam in the first place. The demons were no more a threat to him than Lucifer in his cage. He owed Sam nothing, and yet, here he was.

When all were slaughtered and he and Sam stood alone in the warehouse, covered in demon blood but otherwise none worse for the wear, it was Sam who suggested they both head back to the motel to clean up. Crowley, who was once again hiding out by living in a trailer for his own protection, was not about to pass up the unexpected offer.

Sam told Crowley to take the first shower, muttering something about blood in his hair and using up all the hot water. Crowley began to hum as he peeled off the remains of yet another ruined suit and stepped under the searing water. It was only after he stepped out, steam rising from his skin in a cloud, that he realized he had nothing to wear.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and shouted “Sam!” through the cracked door.

“Yeah, Crowley?”

“I need something to wear.”

“What happened to your—“ Sam stepped up to the door and glanced at the pile of black and bloody scraps on the bathroom floor. “Oh. Can’t you just, I don’t know, poof yourself another one?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and glared. “No, I cannot just ‘poof’ myself anything. I’m not an _angel_ , it has to actually exist before I can go get it, and if you’ve forgotten, my TAILOR. WAS. EATEN. Thank you _ever_ so much.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. I’ll get you something just,” Sam looked him up and down with a bemused look on his face that made Crowley want to punch him, “keep your towel on.”

Crowley slammed the door and paced the tiny bathroom, fuming. Sam signaled his return with a polite knock and Crowley opened the door a crack.

“They’ll probably be a little big, but they’re the only things I own that stand a chance at fitting, so, here.” Sam handed him a bundle of fabric and shut the door.

Upon closer examination, the bundle turned out to be an old faded sweatshirt and sweatpants, the word STANFORD written in bold letters across the chest and down on leg. They were long, much too long, but with a little rolling here and tucking there, he managed to make them work. Summoning the last of his dignity, he stepped out of the bathroom.

Sam was standing off to one side, staring at the floor and trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Moose. I’ll have you know this is very temporary and entirely on you. Desperate times and all that. So go take your shower and wipe that contemptible smirk off your face before I hit it.”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes at that but it wasn’t with annoyance that he stared back at Crowley before leaving him alone in the motel’s small living space. Crowley turned the telly on with the idyll wave of a hand and sat on one of the two queen beds. It dawned on him with a pang of, what was it, guilt? That even though it’d been weeks since the incident with Dick, and Dean and Castiel’s subsequent traipse into purgatory, Sam still booked a double.

* * *

 

Sam turned off the TV around 11. It was earlier than he usually went to bed, but it had been a busy and confusing day and he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks. It was only then that he realized Crowley was still there, watching the TV with him from the other bed. They hadn’t said a word to each other in hours, but that wasn’t unusual for Sam. TV time was quiet time for Sam and Dean, a holdover from when they were kids and watching TC was the only thing to fill the silence of those long days alone in motel rooms when John had instructed them to be quiet.

“You’re still here,” he said, breaking the silence left by the TV’s absence.

“You have the room,” Crowley replied, gesturing around them.

Sam looked around the motel as if expecting Crowley’s statement to be disproven. It wasn’t. He didn’t have a good response to that.

He must have looked confused because Crowley laughed. “Go to sleep, Sam, before you pass out from sheer mental strain.” As if to emphasize that he intended to do the same, Crowley snapped and the lights went out.

Sam was too tired to think straight so he just said the first thing that came to mind. “Do demons even need sleep?”

Crowley chuckled. “This one does. Force of habit. Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night, D—uh, Crowley.” The name felt suddenly foreign and wrong in his mouth.  If Crowley noticed the slip, he gave no notion. Sam decided Crowley was right about one thing: he was too tired to question his current situation any longer.

That night he dreamed he was in the backseat of the impala, silently arguing about something inane with Dean when John wasn’t looking.


End file.
